


we were warm until we went to hell

by tiltingheartand



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltingheartand/pseuds/tiltingheartand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take others' lives so you can keep your own. Right. So much for the Hippocratic oath. So much for being a decent man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were warm until we went to hell

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tears_of_nienna and immortality on LJ for helping this to exist.

Oh, Jesus, it's insane, the triumphant look on your ex-wife's face as the court rules in her favor, cleans you out so completely that you literally have the clothes on your back and nothing else.

Well, the clothes on your back and a very skilled set of hands, and Largo smirks as he passes the ruling. (You remember reading something once, when you were in school, avoiding your homework by reading other textbooks near you in the library; you found an antiquated lawbook, discovered that laws used to mean something, that the courts weren't ruled by corporations. And you know it's stupid to miss a time you've never experienced, but you think that might have been nice.) _I don't often re-negotiate, Doctor McCoy,_ he says, and his freak of a daughter, stoned out of her fucking mind on Zydrate, snickers in the background. _However, in this case, I suppose I can make an exception._

Yeah, sure. Take others' lives so you can keep your own. Right. So much for the Hippocratic oath.

So much for being a decent man.

 

 

You meet Jim a few days later when you're trying to drink yourself into oblivion, hoping that maybe you'll luck out and die of alcohol poisoning before you have to perform anything other than routine operations. He's loud, and brash, and a complete asshole, and you're somehow completely intrigued. Over the next few days he takes to you like you took to alcohol -- pretty well, considering, even though in the end it's going to be a poisonous relationship.

You think, a week or two after that: oh, maybe this is what it's like to have a best friend. (You remember, when you first met your ex-wife, thinking that she was your best friend. It might have even been true, for a while, but all you can remember is your utter disappointment when you realized how incredibly wrong you were about her -- about yourself -- and that the two of you were barely even friends, let alone best friends.) Four repossessions down and you're convinced you don't deserve a best friend, but there it is.

 

 

_Why do we always end up at my place?_ Jim asks one night, hitting you on the shoulder. He's sprawled out on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, and you're laying on a blanket on the floor, staring at what's probably the same stretch of ceiling. There's not much to be had.

You shrug, try to hit him back. _Well I don't live at my place so much as squat there,_ you say, which is true. The fact that your rooms are all full of equipment you don't want anyone but people about to die to see isn't really relevant here, you decide, and anyway squatting is a legitimate reason.

_Really? And you don't get busted?_

_Largo covers for me._

_Holy shit, really?_ Jim sounds genuinely surprised. It's not something you're used to hearing from him.

You shrug, turn your face just the tiniest bit away so he can't meet your eyes. _Yeah, well. I work for GeneCo, it's not like he'd let one of his star employees live out on the streets._

_Well I'll be damned._ Jim laughs a little -- actually laughs. _So it could've been you that gave me this scar?_ You make yourself look over his way, and he's got his shirt pulled up high enough you can see the white tissue over where the heart goes, and you feel kind of sick. You still don't know what Jim does, but he doesn't talk about it, and given where he's living, you can't imagine it pays very much.

You start spending more time at Jim's place; you start chipping in on the rent.

 

 

At some point -- the days have started to blur together, surgery then sleep then repossession then drink then drink then sleep then repossession then drink then sleep then drink then sleep -- you and Jim start to sleep together. You know he makes the first move, one night, rolling off the mattress the two of you have been sharing and down the four inches or so to the floor next to you, putting one hand on the side of your face and then kissing you like he means it. You know you're the one that starts getting rid of the clothes. Beyond that, it's pretty hazy.

When you wake up, Jim drooling on your chest, you can almost pretend that you're happy, that the two of you are in your attic just for the hell of it, that you're living a hundred years ago when people were all healthy. 

And then Jim shifts, and you can see his bare chest and the scar that marks it, and you feel a little sick again. Closing your eyes never helps, but you always try all the same. Sometimes you fall back asleep, sometimes you don't. It never helps.

 

 

When Largo hands over your next assignment, spinal cord still cooling in its container on his desk, you think you sense him laughing a little on the inside; he's not a man who's skilled at keeping his emotions at bay. For the life of you, though, you can't figure out what's so damned funny.

And then you open up the folder, and Jim's staring at you.

_This account is past due,_ Largo tells you. _We need his heart for another patient. The surgery's in three days._

_I can't do this,_ you say.

_You_ will _do this,_ he says. _An innocent person will die without this heart. And you'll die too; it's very difficult to carry on living without a set of lungs._

An innocent person will die if I give you this heart, you think, but say nothing.

 

 

_Jim,_ you say that night. _Jim, how'd you lose your heart?_

_Got in a barfight,_ he says, and his face does something that's probably supposed to be a smile. _I was defending a friend's honor, but the other guys had these knives, and I didn't really have a chance. I was lucky,_ he says.

_Oh,_ you say.

_I was -- it's lucky I found you,_ he says, looking at the ground. _I'm glad I did._

You try to respond, but nothing comes out. You settle for a hand on the back of the neck, hope that's enough.

 

 

It's two nights later; Jim is out cold, and it sounds like he's about five minutes from starting to snore. You almost wish you didn't have to wake him, but that's the only way this is going to work.

_Jim,_ you say, nudging him a few times as you roll off the bed to the ground and then stand, looking for your medical bag. _Jim,_ you say, louder this time, and find it over by the door. You remember: you'd come back, set it down, and then joined Jim on the bed, trying to make the most of the time.

_What,_ he says, scowling and rubbing his eyes. He widens them a second later when you open your bag. _What the fuck, where did all that Z come from?_

You laugh, although this is probably the least funny thing that's ever happened to you. _I'm a doctor, Jim, I know where we keep the Zydrate. It's not hard to get into the supplies._ And it's not, you think, as though you're the only one who takes any. Or as though anyone will be able to tell you off for it, tomorrow.

_Okay,_ he says, sitting up and shaking his head a few times. _Okay. Second question: why do you have all that Z? Starting up a business?_

_Jim,_ you say, sitting down beside him and sighing. _You have to leave, okay? There's enough time left you can make it, if you're careful. Stay near the streetlights until you can't, and then see if you can find someone to walk with you until you make it out of the city. They won't take you if you're not alone._ You have to look away from him halfway through, down at the floor. You wish you could remember where you put your gun; none of this blue shit will do a damn bit of good if you can't get it in you.

You only look back at him when he starts tugging at your arm; when you do, he's got a very obvious question mark on his face. You wish he would just leave, because this whole plan hinges on him not being a dumbfuck. Apparently this is too much to ask.

_Your account is past due. The surgery's in less than twelve hours,_ you say, voice carefully even. _As soon as Largo realizes that I'm no longer working for him, he's going to send someone else after you. If you go now you can probably make it._

_You're --_ You can actually see the pieces connecting in his head. He bites his lip, looking away from you, and you suddenly remember that the gun is over by the window. You stand, going over to dig it out from the piles, and hear the mattress move as Jim stands. His footfalls start heading for the door, and then they pause. _You never answered my question,_ he says.

_There you are,_ you say, pulling it out and smiling just a little. _I'm terminating our contract,_ you say with a shrug as you turn and head back to the bed. _I'm no longer providing him a service, so he no longer has to provide me with a pair of lungs. And I know they're coming, so I might as well be fucking gone by the time whoever it is gets here._ You look up at him, shirtless and barefoot, and try and give him a smile. _Your shoes are over there, by the way. Don't ask me where your shirts are._

You start loading the gun, then, paying attention to putting the vial in properly and trying to figure out how you're going to give yourself more than one of these, so it takes you by surprise when he sits down next to you. _You got enough for two?_

Well, in point of fact you probably have enough for ten, but you weren't going to take any chances, and what the fuck? _What the fuck?_

_I'm not leaving,_ he says, and grabs your bag, pulling out the vials and counting them out into his lap.

No. This cannot be happening. _Dammit, Jim,_ you say, and damn your voice for cracking. _You'll die, you idiot, just fucking_ go _._

_Eh,_ he says, and bumps his shoulder up against yours briefly. _I was due to die once I stopped being able to pay, and it looks like we've got the makings for one hell of a party before we go. Damned if I'm going to let you hog it all for yourself._

_Jim,_ you say, and can think of nothing else. His fake grin is a lot more convincing than yours, you'll say that for him, but you see hopelessness in his eyes that you imagine he probably sees in yours, and stop trying to fight it. _I'm sorry,_ you settle on, knowing it doesn't really mean anything anymore.

_Don't be,_ he says, and holds his hand out. _You want to do the honors, or am I going to be the one to get this party started?_

Much later, when you can almost think again, you move your right hand until you can find Jim's left, and twine your fingers together. He turns onto his side some, reaches over with his right hand and places it over your heart. You catch his eyes, one last time, and squeeze his hand as tightly as you can. He squeezes back, and you both close your eyes.

You wait.


End file.
